While doing a 50 first sentences exercise, a supernatural spec fic MMA story jumped off the page at me. I promptly stopped working on the exercise and plopped right into this new short story. I'm not sure how it ends, but here is a short and completely out of context sample:
Laymen will never understand the fighting life. Average people can’t really, because they have never known suffering. Not like this, anyway. I’ve waded through the trenches of anguish, and weathered the dethatched retinas, the cumulative concussions, and the broken knuckles. I’ve fought with the will of gods and devils just for that silent moment, that mere instant, before the crowd knows what they have witnessed. For the uproar after as hulking men, covered in my own blood and sweat, plummet toward the canvas. I can feel the ring shake with their impact.
I see with absolute clarity in those moments, when that razor thin line between the body and soul flow through one another. The physical pain drops away, and the body moves like water. My hands always find their mark in that place. For a few brief tendrils of time, I can see these agents as well, these demons or angels, sitting with my corner man, or on the rim of the cage. Wisps of smoke envelop my hands, being drawn from the long cloaks of the hidden intruders. They grin at me, teeth glistening like polished black marble, but I have never understood their intent.
I'm always a bit too high on my own writing, so its hard for me to be entirely objective. If this is all terribly unclear (I'd hope because of context and not bad writing), please let me know.